


sweet disposition

by lanfan



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, M/M, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2669432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanfan/pseuds/lanfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“Do you need something?”</p>
  <p>Bokuto finds himself too busy to actually answer because he’s more concerned with whether or not it is rationally possible to fall in love in mere seconds.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	sweet disposition

**Author's Note:**

> i love this pairing so much that i actually wrote something happy for once in my sorry life
> 
> the alternate title was 'the only time milton ever got anyone a date'

The first time Bokuto Koutarou rearranges the classics section of the library, covered in dust and what he’s starting to realize are likely spider eggs, it’s a coincidence. He groans about the task the entire trip up the stairs to no one in particular, only shutting up when he sees a boy sitting inside the narrow stacks, concentrating wholly on the stack of textbooks beside him. He has papers scattered in front of his feet, which are tucked beneath his thighs almost like he’s sitting for prayer, and Bokuto is pretty sure he stands there for more than a minute, staring openly like an idiot. 

“Do you need something?”

Bokuto finds himself too busy to actually answer because he’s more concerned with whether or not it is rationally possible to fall in love in mere seconds. The boy in front of him is a pretty thing: lanky and lithe, dark hair sticking out in wisps, not quite as messy as his roommate Kuroo’s but still likely natural bedhead, and the kind of mouth that seemed permanently set to a straight line, only curving for special occasions. He is ready to be that special occasion. Instead, he watches the line pinch downwards into a distinct frown.

“ _Do you need something?_ ”

“Ah,” Bokuto says, jumping nearly a foot backwards, crashing into the graphic novels section with his back. “I just need to organize the books. Behind you. Now.” 

“Do I need to move?”

“No,” he says, maybe too quickly. Bokuto walks over to the boy’s side, almost hovering, hands raised. “I’ll just work around you, really.”

“Alright.” And like that, the conversation ends with the fluttering of papers returning to cover the boy’s lidded eyes, almost squinting to read the scrawl of numbers that Bokuto can see from his position above. 

To seem convincing, he starts alphabetizing the Shakespeare’s. This takes longer than necessary because for each play he puts in its proper place, he is also counting each time the boy’s eyes flicker as if he’s about to crash and fall asleep right at Bokuto’s feet. It’s cute but concerning. 

“Maybe you should take a break,” he quips, hands balancing eight different copies of _Venus and Adonis_ , and The Boy glances up in barely concealed annoyance. Bokuto pretends not to notice by investigating which of the eight are quarto editions and adjusting them on the shelf accordingly.

“What?”

“You look like you’re about to pass out.” 

“I just need coffee—“ 

“I’m Bokuto!” The yell is audible down the hall, where he hears a distinctly harsh hush. The Boy winces. Bokuto dies a little. 

“…Akaashi.” 

***

Akaashi comes to the classics stack every weekday afternoon to study and as if by fate, Bokuto has to reorganize the section at the exact same time every single day. And by reorganize, he means move around the few copies of _Paradise Lost_ they have. And by move around _Paradise Lost_ , he means covertly stare at Akaashi from behind the covers of Milton. 

“What are you studying?”

It’s been a week and Akaashi seems to finally have understood that Bokuto’s presence has become a routine in his otherwise flawless study system. He takes the challenge to his peace with grace.  
“Business.”

“What kind?”

“Microeconomics.”

“ _Wow!_ ” 

His one word answers have also left Bokuto unphased. If anything, they make him more relentless. 

“Akaashi, what do you do for fun?”

“This.”

“No way. Please tell me you’re kidding. Akaashi, tell me you’re kidding.”

“ _Bokuto-san_ “ – Bokuto loves it when Akaashi says his name like that – “I’m working.”

“So am I!” 

***

Kuroo tells him he’s going to get killed one of these days. 

“Seriously. The guy is gonna lose it and just uppercut you in the jaw.” Bokuto is sulking in their tiny kitchen, his frame wide enough (or the place small enough) that he’s almost touching both the cabinets and the fridge with just his shoulders. It’s been two weeks and Akaashi has diligently been frigid; only answering when he feels he has no other choice to make Bokuto stop hovering. He doesn’t seem to enjoy their conversations at all – he’s never even seen the boy smile – and all he gets in reply for his small talk is exasperated sighs and yesterday, an eye roll. 

“Kuroo, you don’t understand.” 

“You sound like a teenager. You’re twenty four.”

“And you’re a horrible best friend,” Bokuto groans, reaching for something to throw in his roommate’s direction. Kuroo watches, amused, as he gropes for a nearby magazine. 

“Maybe if you’d just talk to him when he isn’t studying, he’d be more willing to have a conversation.” 

“ _He’s always studying_.”

“He has to leave the library sometime,” Kuroo sighs, putting his feet up on their makeshift coffee table. In reality, it was a broken nightstand that had belonged to Kenma before he moved out, painted a dark brown by their neighbor, Sugawara Koushi. Truth be told, most of their house staples were by the little DIY devil, who insisted that their apartment was not only dirty, but pathetically decorated. It wasn’t like Kuroo could argue otherwise and so, he now had both a coffee table and a giant distressed grandfather clock that was on American Pacific time.

“I think he lives there,” Bokuto mumbled, sinking deeper into the fabric of his hoodie. “Like a mole person.”

“You’re an idiot. Just leave him alone and see if he tries to strike up conversation himself. Maybe he’ll end up missing how irritating you are.” 

***

And so, Bokuto tries it. He avoids the classics section and busies himself with unpacking the new set of Young Adult books they’d received in the mail, collecting cobwebs in the basement. Usually, Yamaguchi or Yachi got this job, because Bokuto had a bad habit of reading the books as he inputted them into the computer, courtesy of shitty dial-up internet. Once, Yachi had found him down there sobbing like a child, clutching _The Book Thief_ in his hands like a lifeline. Since then, he’d been confined to the upstairs, where there were too many thick tombs for him to be thinking about propping one open.  
And miraculously, when he finally arrives to his spot beside the shiny new collection of Cervantes he’d added to the Classics the day before, Akaashi speaks first. 

“Already organized this section today, Bokuto-san?”

“So you noticed I was gone,” Bokuto grins and in that moment, he can swear the tips of Akaashi’s ears turn bright red under the tuffs of his hair. 

“It’s hard not to,” he replies, voice still deadpan but almost different somehow. Bokuto thanks every god he can think of and then thanks Kuroo twice over. 

“So what are you studying today, Akaashi?” Instantly, his eyes glance at the open textbook in front of him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Accounting.” 

“Sounds dull.”

“I like numbers,” Akaashi shrugs, settling against the bookshelf, closing the textbook in front of him. Bokuto glances around quickly before settling down beside him, legs spread. “They’re relaxing. They only mean one thing; it’s not about interpretation, it’s just fact.”

“Doesn’t seem like much fun to me,” Bokuto grins, fingers laced together behind his head. “But you seem good at it.”

Akaashi blinks, head tilted, almost staring Bokuto down. He backtracks quickly. 

“I mean, from how much you study. I see you here sometimes.”

“You see me every day.”

Bokuto nearly groans out loud but manages to refrain by pinching the inside of his elbow. “This section gets messy a _lot_ you know and I mean—sometimes people just _leave_ Ibsen in the children’s section just because it’s called A Dollhouse which I mean, makes sense—“

“Bokuto-san, would you like to get some coffee after your shift?”

“I don’t get off work until midnight.” Akaashi doesn’t turn his eyes away from him and Bokuto, for the first time in his entire life, thinks he might be blushing. He thinks Akaashi might be blushing too but he can’t tell because he’s too busy staring at the line of his pale, pink lips, curved. 

“Oh! Yeah! Yeah yeah!” 

And not even the sharp sound of student hisses can bring him down because when Akaashi leaves his textbook behind after he says goodbye, Bokuto finds a post-it note inside it with the chicken scrawl he has come to know so well, and a phone number.


End file.
